


Blatantly Obvious

by nylux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Blow Jobs, First Time, Flirting, Hand Jobs, M/M, mention of stalking and abuse in the context of cases, misbehaving on cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 00:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13559139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nylux/pseuds/nylux
Summary: Five times people noticed that Sherlock and John were flirting, and one time Sherlock and John noticed themselves.





	1. Prologue

From: stamford@faculty.bartsmedical.ac.uk

To: martha_v8@geemail.com, hooper@pathology.bartsmedical.ac.uk, violet@speedster.co.uk, g.lestrade63@geemail.com, office@cabinet.gov.uk

Subject: Anecdotes please!

Dear friends,

as you all know, the big day is approaching. As John has made me his best man, it is my traditional responsibility to thoroughly embarrass our two grooms in the presence of their families and friends. For this I need your help.

I think it is fair to say that those two were the last to notice that they were meant for each other. To me at least, the only surprise was that they had finally managed to sort themselves out after all those years of ignoring the elephant in the room.

So here is my request: When did you notice that there was something going on between them? When did you first catch them shamelessly flirting with each other? I want to know all the details. Just drop me a line or call me or use whatever means of contact you prefer (except for kidnapping please). 

Hope to see you all at the wedding!

Best wishes,  
Mike Stamford


	2. Mrs. Hudson

It was the day that Sherlock brought John to the flat at Baker Street. I had offered him to rent it after he had helped me with a somewhat delicate family issue. Sherlock, having just started his detective business, was a bit short on money. Even though I did not ask for anything near what is standard in central London, he said he would need to share the rent. I would have let him stay for whatever he was ready to pay, but he insisted and told me he would find a flatmate.

To be honest, I was doubtful that he would find someone. He can be a bit rude and difficult to handle at times. But then, I did not know him so well back then. To my surprise, a week later he sent me a message to announce that he and his flatmate would like to move in as soon as possible. I was at my sister's at the time, so I told him to get the spare key from Mr. Chatterjee (he is the owner of the sandwich shop downstairs) so that they could move right in. On the day I came back Sherlock texted me that they would come by at 7 pm that evening. 

I was a bit curious about who Sherlock would bring. So I shamefully admit that I went upstairs and positioned myself at the sitting room window to get a first glance at this person. On this occasion I noticed that someone had made a mighty mess out of the flat: piles of books and papers everywhere, moving boxes all over the place. The kitchen looked as if it had been turned into a chemistry lab. And there was a skull sitting on the mantelpiece. A human skull, can you imagine? I have had my share of unconventional living arrangements, but I was slightly worried about what kind of people I had allowed into my house.

Five minutes to seven, a dapper young man with a cane appeared on the pavement, apparently waiting for someone. I deduced, as Sherlock would say, that this had be the flatmate. Something did not make sense, though. I certainly would not have associated this man with the contents of the flat. Now I know that John, despite his appearance, is quite capable of an eccentric lifestyle, but it turned out that I was right about the mess not being his. 

At precisely seven o'clock a cab arrived and Sherlock got off to shake the man's hand. I rushed downstairs to open the door. Sherlock was at his best behaviour. We greeted with a hug. Then he introduced me to John in a very polite fashion. Sherlock seemed oddly nervous, like a schoolboy bringing home a girl, or in this case a boy, for the first time. 

We went upstairs. John acted as if he had not seen the flat before. I found that rather confusing. While Sherlock had clearly stated that John was his new flatmate, John was seemingly unaware of this. 

The situation became a bit complicated then. John, assuming that the mess belonged to a previous tenant, said something about cleaning out. At the same moment, Sherlock blurted out that he had already moved in. They both looked quite embarrassed after this awkward exchange. It was adorable how they tried to righten the situation. Sherlock (our Sherlock!) actually made a hastened attempt to get his mess under control. It was the first and last time for me to witness Sherlock Holmes make an effort to get this place in order. John just looked around, trying to ignore the situation. 

I decided to walk into the room to interfere. John had just discovered the skull. Sherlock was stumbling over his words. It was clear to me that they wanted to move in together, but did not quite know how to accomplish this. So I did my best to make John feel welcome. I asked if he liked the flat and pointed out the second bedroom.

The very moment I had said this, I realised that it may have given them the wrong impression. Sherlock had always appeared to me as a solitary man, but he seemed intent on having John around. And, to be honest, John did not play hard to get. I felt that there was something going on between them. I was not sure if they were a couple. I could well imagine that they had had some sort of a sexual adventure that they wanted to turn into a more serious relationship, neither of them being sure if the other wanted the same. 

I did not want to appear as one of these conservative old ladies who find the idea of two men sharing a life abhorrent. So I suggested that it would be fine if they only needed a single bedroom.

John's reaction to this was rather vehement and Sherlock continued to be out of his depth. I wondered if I had misjudged the situation. In the end we managed to steer to conversation into lighter territory.

The rest is well-known history. John did move in, just as Sherlock had predicted, and they became the detective and the blogger. I was optimistic that they would eventually figure out the rest, too. There were so many moments where I thought they already had, and it still hurts me to know what they to go through, before they finally got what they had wanted from the very beginning. How they managed in the end, is their story to tell, but I am quite certain that I was the first to know. 

I could not be happier for my two boys and their little girl and I wish them a long and happy life together.


	3. Molly Hooper

I think I noticed quite early on, but perhaps not as early as I could have. You may not know, but I did have a little crush on Sherlock myself for a short while. For that reason, anything personal going on between Sherlock and John may have hit a blind spot.

The story I want to tell may be a little embarrassing for me. But this is for John and Sherlock, so I am happy to make a bit of a fool of myself. 

It happened around four months after John had moved in with Sherlock. I think it was a happy and carefree time for them. Sherlock was establishing himself as the person he wanted to be, also thanks to John and his blog, which was starting to get considerable attention. They were still far from fame and all complications to come.

It was during a case that John would later call "The Case of the Coded Tattoo Model". You can read about it on the blog. It was a really nice one, just what Sherlock likes. The victim was a twenty-two-year-old tattoo model. His whole body was covered with a spider web tattoo. It was extremely realistic: very symmetric at first sight, but if you looked closely, you would find irregularities. There were even tattooed insects that where "caught" in the spider web. Cause of death: poisoning by a rare radioactive substance.

Due to the unusual death, there was a suspicion that some larger organisation, for instance a foreign government, was involved. I think it was Mycroft who put Sherlock on the case. To cut a long story short, Sherlock solved it. It turned out that the irregularities of the tattoo were actually a code, and that the tattoo artist had connections to half a dozen intelligence agencies all over the world.

I think it is safer not to go into the details. You will not find them on the blog either. The upshot was that the boy's tattoo carried sensitive material that was to be smuggled out of the UK and to be delivered, via the model, to its recipient at a tattoo convention in Indonesia. The "transaction" was intercepted by a third party at the Dubai airport. The tattooed boy, who was completely uninvolved, was collateral damage.

Anyway, back to John and Sherlock. The part of the case that concerns us was the evening when Sherlock figured out the code. The body had arrived from Dubai late at night, and Sherlock did not want to wait until the following day. So I had to cancel all my activities for the evening and meet him at the morgue at Bart's.

John was there too, of course, looking tired and grumpy. Back then he was still trying (and failing) to schedule his medical work around Sherlock. He did not seem to like the idea of spending the evening in the morgue. On the other hand, he could just have refused to come, but he did not. Well, to be honest, the same was true for me, too. It seems that neither of us can say no to Sherlock. 

So both John and I sat down at lab tables at opposite ends of the room, while Sherlock went to work at the slab. As I am sure you know, Sherlock at work is quite a sight to behold. He was inspecting the body from all sides, circling the victim with graceful strides. It seemed as if he followed a well-studied choreography, almost dancing around the corpse. 

He had always been showing off like that, in this very physical way. However, it was my impression that this behaviour had been intensifying with the appearance of John. And here comes the part that is embarrassing for me. I thought that Sherlock did it all for my benefit. I had been subtly communicating my interest for quite some time, and I actually believed that he was flirting with me.

I felt delighted about my decision to give Sherlock access to the corpse in the middle of the night, until I looked over to John. What John was doing I can only describe as ogling. I think neither of us was paying attention to Sherlock's running commentary on his progress with the case. Just like me, John was simply staring at Sherlock's body.

John is usually very restrained when it comes to his body language. It was perhaps due to his fatigue that he let it show. I don't think he was consciously aware of what he was doing. When John noticed that I was looking at him, he hastily picked out his phone to look something up.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was bending over the corpse, using his looking glass to examine one of the tattooed insects in the spider web. He muttered something about the direction it faced having a meaning, then excitedly moved onto the next interesting body part.

Sherlock was about to figure out the code, when I noticed a pattern myself -- not on the model's body but rather in Sherlock's motions. He seemed to position himself in such a way that, whenever he bent over the corpse, his behind was directed at John. John seemed to notice too. He was more careful after I had caught him staring, but he still managed to look up precisely at the right moments to catch an eyeful. 

I have to admit that I considered my evening ruined at that point. They were so obviously taken with each other, that the hopes I had for Sherlock and myself more or less went down the drain. 

And it did not get better. Inevitably, Sherlock reached his final insight. 

"Oh! It's a code, John," was all it took to make John forget all his grumpiness and to jump to Sherlock's side.

John's attention was fully focused on what Sherlock had to say. He was smiling at Sherlock in amazement, as they proceeded to figure out the details together. I think, by then, they had completely forgotten about my presence.

I still cannot believe that they were not aware of what was going on between them that evening. As for me, I ended up in the pub across the street, after John and Sherlock were done. In contrast to John and Sherlock, I did not sleep alone that night.


	4. The Client

I met John and Sherlock as a client. A few years ago I had a problem with a stalker. I am a bicycle courier. My job is to transport documents between companies across town. I usually do not know any details about these documents, but when I urgently have to go back and forth between banks, government agencies and company headquarters, I can tell that I am not just transporting the canteen menu.

Most of my income comes from clients who use my services on a regular basis. One of them was an insurance company that had documents transported to a bank in the City, three mornings a week. At some point I noticed that a man was following me. He always appeared near St. Paul's, then followed me on his bicycle until I reached my destination. He was there every time I had the assignment, irrespective of weather, weekday or the traffic situation. 

After two weeks I got worried. I am not easily scared and physically fit. I would have dealt with him myself, if he had exhibited any threatening behaviour. However, he did not do anything other than follow me. I suspected that he was after the documents I was carrying.

Confidentiality is a huge issue in my business. This is why I hesitated to involve the police. I confided in a friend who suggested to contact Sherlock Holmes. I have to admit that I had no idea who Sherlock Holmes was. "What? Don't you read the news?" was all my friend said.

Indeed, I had missed something of a media hype. Back then, John and Sherlock were on the verge of becoming famous. Sherlock's website was not particularly inviting. "Don't be dull," it said. Compared to the adventures I found on John's blog, I found my case incredibly boring. I tried my luck anyway and sent a message, not really expecting a reply.

Surprisingly, I did get an answer: "Dear Ms. Smith, Sherlock Holmes is interested in your case. Please visit us at Baker Street on Thursday afternoon. Kind regards, John Watson."

This Thursday afternoon was quite extraordinary, as far as weird encounters are concerned. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and led me upstairs. John was expecting me at the door. He introduced himself and invited me to sit down on a chair facing the fireplace. To the right, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, hands folded under his chin. He did not seem to take notice of me at all.

John, on the other hand, did his best to make me feel comfortable. He offered me tea, while chatting with me from the kitchen. Sherlock remained in stasis next to me. John acted as if all this were normal. After handing me my cup of tea, he sat down in his chair and got his notepad ready.

What happened next was... nothing. Sherlock just sat there, avoiding my gaze. John also just sat there, completely at ease, as if three people facing each other in silence were the natural course of things. I wanted to say something, report on my case, but somehow this felt wrong. So I just stared at the skull on the mantelpiece and tried make sense of the people and the place. Very much in vain, I must say. 

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, John looked over at Sherlock, raised his eyebrows and then turned towards me.

"Well, Miss Smith, why don't you tell us what brought you here?"

I was relieved that this appointment finally took a normal course, and started to explain the details that I found should be most useful for a private detective: time and place, a description of the man, as far as I could give it (not much, he always kept his distance), my suspicion about the documents.

"When did he die?"

I stopped mid-sentence and looked at Sherlock, who was staring right at me.

"What?" I was more than confused, and glanced at John who had a fond look on his face.

"Your father, when did he die?" Sherlock sounded impatient.

I was still catching up with the turn of events. "How do you know that he died?"

"Irrelevant. When did your father die?"

"Two months ago. Why?" John smiled.

"Does not matter," Sherlock said. "Was it a big funeral?"

"Um, yes, but what does this have to do with..."

"Answer my question, Miss Smith." I was starting to get annoyed about all the rudeness and looked at John for support.

"Just answer his question, please,'' John said in a soothing voice. "Trust me, he knows what he is doing." He seemed to have some experience in dealing with such situations.

"Yes, it was quite a big funeral. My father died young, and he was a business man. Lots of friends and colleagues."

"Anyone your age? Someone you had not seen in a while?"

How could he possible have known that? I looked at John again, but he only had eyes for Sherlock.

"Yes, a few people actually."

"Be more specific, please." Still impatient.

"Well, one of my best friends from school. She came to support..."

"Male, of course." Of course. 

"Just one. Son of one of my father's business partners from the past."

"How far past?"

"When we both were in kindergarten. We were friends. But then the family moved to South Africa, and I had not seen him since."

"Brilliant!" John exclaimed, beaming at Sherlock. 

"Case solved. Boring. You can go." Sherlock looked at John, not at me.

I was still confused. "Do you mean, the man following me is..."

"Yes, of course he is." Sherlock looked as uninterested as at the beginning.

"But why?" I felt that I was entitled to an explanation.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Love makes stupid people more stupid. Saw you again. Got overwhelmed by hormones. Got himself a job at the insurance company. Found out your schedule. Classic stalking situation. No mystery."

I looked at John, who still had a dreamy smile on his face. "What am I supposed to do now? Should I go to the police?"

John nodded. "Yes, you should. If you want I can give you the contact information of someone at New Scotland Yard who specialises on that."

"Donovan? She won't do anything." Sherlock looked up form his phone. 

"So what would you rather have her do?" John asked, meaning me.

Sherlock leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. "Be creative."

John's face lit up. He moved to the edge of his seat, eyebrows raised. "Go on," he said.

What happened next is the reason why I am telling this story. They were staring at each other, speaking quickly as they grew more and more excited. They seemed to plot some sort of revenge in my name. I had no idea what they were talking about. They spoke in some kind of code that consisted of references to previous cases. They were literally completing each other's sentences.

I think they had completely forgotten about my presence by then, so immersed were they in their conversation. They kept constant eye contact, while their smiles grew wider and wider. They also moved towards each other. Their knees almost touching.

At some point they both noticed that there was someone else in the room. Sherlock gave me a brief sideways glance. This made John stop mid-sentence. He turned towards me, looking slightly embarrassed.

He cleared his throat. "Well, Miss Smith, if you don't mind, we are going to take care of your situation."

I had not expected that. "Yes, that would be great," I said, "but you won't injure him, will you?" There was a knife stuck in the mantelpiece. I was slightly worried. 

"Of course not," John said.

"Not physically." Sherlock said at the same time.

"Don't worry," John added. "We're just going to scare him a little. You'll see."

John got up and walked me to the door. "Thank you for coming to us." Sherlock had returned to ignoring me.

I do confess that searched the internet for information on John and Sherlock being a couple right after the meeting. I found a lot of gossip. All wrong, as I found out later.

To wrap this up, John and Sherlock did take good care of my problem. After my visit to Baker street, Sherlock started to appear at a bus stop on my standard route between the insurance company and the bank. He demonstratively read a newspaper whose title page said "New laws: no mercy for stakers". The same newspaper, every day. He made sure that my stalker noticed it.

Right after he passed the bus stop, John appeared on his bicycle and followed us until I had reached my destination.

After a week the stalking stopped. Much later, John confessed to me that Sherlock did not take my case because he found it exciting ("barely a three"). He rather was interested in my profession. I don't think it is a big secret that Sherlock has his eyes and ears all over London. He simply wanted to recruit me. Well, it worked and I am even happier about the friendship has that developed over the years. 

In case anyone is interested in how Sherlock knew about my father's death. He had noticed that I was wearing a necklace with a wedding ring. By its size and overall appearance he knew it was man's and that is was at least twenty years old. He correctly deduced that I wore it in memory of my recently deceased father. 

As John always says: amazing.


	5. Greg Lestrade

I noticed embarrassingly late. Sherlock would say it's because I'm an idiot. In this case, however, Sherlock is actually the bigger idiot, because he noticed even later than I did.

You know, it's Sherlock Holmes we are talking about. Who thinks about Sherlock in that way? I certainly did not. When John first showed up at one of my crime scenes, we were all too relieved that John somehow managed to turn Sherlock into a halfway presentable human being. That was all that mattered to us, and we did not really think much further (yes, there was a pool quite early on, and I was the last to know...).

And John? John is very easy to get along with, at least superficially. We quickly fell into a routine of frequent pub visits, mostly to share our common burden that was Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it should have struck me as odd that all we ever talked about was Sherlock. But then, he does give material for endless conversation, so it did not seem weird at all.

Also, John always had girlfriends. On the other hand, he never had them for long. One could have thought of an obvious reason for this, but I didn't. I'm an idiot, I know.

I also could have noticed after Sherlock had died and John was so obviously heart-broken. But, for all I knew, Sherlock was dead, and any speculation was moot anyway. John never said anything, and I did not ask.

Then Sherlock came back and John got married. That's when I noticed.

It was a case, a gruesome one: initiation ritual in the military gone completely out of hand. A young recruit dead, everyone kept their mouths shut: the other recruits, their families, the superiors. We got hold of a young boy as a suspect. His body also showed clear signs of abuse. We wanted to get him to talk with the prospect of mitigating circumstances. He didn't cooperate.

So we brought John in. We hoped that he, as a military man, could talk some sense into the boy. Sherlock was there, too, because Mycroft, being the head of bloody everything in this country, was interested in the case.

At this time it was rare to have John and Sherlock on a case together. John was living with Mary, and on cases it was often the three of them or, even more often, Sherlock alone.

When Sherlock arrived, John was already in the interrogation room, talking to the recruit. Sherlock and I watched through the semi-transparent window. The boy sat at the table facing us, John was in the chair across from him.

John is really good at these things. He has a calm authority about him. He said he understood the situation the boy was in, that it is understandable that he did not want to betray his comrades and that he did not question the authority of his superiors, but in this case a crime had happened and it was his duty to help with the investigation.

"Nothing happened," the boy muttered.

"Your medical record tells otherwise,'' John said. Sherlock, who was standing next to me, slightly winced at this.

"I don't remember how this happened." 

John got up and walked around the table, standing behind the suspect. He looked up and stared right at Sherlock and me. He could not see us through the glass screen, but it felt as if he was staring right through it. John took a deep breath, clenched his fist and became a different person.

"Do you you call this honour, cadet?" John did not shout. He merely raised his voice. John is never loud in such situations, but he does make it clear who is in charge. 

The boy looked up at John, alarmed, and sat up straight, as if facing a superior.

"Sir?" I heard Sherlock take an audible breath.

"Do you call this honour? To let yourself be abused and to abuse in turn. All, because it's tradition."

The kid said nothing. Sherlock was staring at John, mouth half open.

"Do you think this is loyalty? That you keep quiet. About the superiors looking away. About the mob that went too far and is responsible for the death of a young man."

The boy looked scared. John did not back off.

"Do you think rituals like this make you a better soldier? Do you think you will be able to trust these people in the battlefield? After what they've done to you?"

John seemed to stare directly at Sherlock, who was rooted to the spot, motionless, mouth half open.

"You think you are defending some twisted concept of honour. Instead, you bring shame upon the armed forces. You, and your comrades, and the superiors that allow this to happen."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth moved upwards. I noticed that his breathing was slightly accelerated. At first I thought, that he was excited about John's approach to get the boy to talk. In hindsight, I would say he was just excited about John (yes, I know what I'm implying). 

John continued. "It is up to you to make it better. Not just for yourself, but also for those who come after you. You can make a difference if you help us now."

That's when the boy broke down. He talked for an hour. Terrible things. John helped him through it, asking the right questions at the right time, reassuring him when necessary.

I'd had a high opinion about John before this case, but he really impressed me that day. By the look on Sherlock's face, he was beyond impressed. He looked like someone who had only now realised, how amazing the person was, that he all too often took for granted. I believe I saw some regret behind all the excitement.

When John left the interrogation room to join us, Sherlock seemed like in a trance. It was the first and only time that I saw Sherlock Holmes lost for words. So I had to do all the praising. I patted John on the shoulder and thanked him, while Sherlock stood next to me, speechless.

John did not really seem to notice me, either. He looked up at Sherlock with an expression on his face that seemed to ask if he had done alright. Sherlock managed a small nod. John's smile grew wider. I felt as if I was interrupting a special moment. I suppose, I was.

It was then that I realised that whatever happened between those two had to be more than friendship and mutual appreciation. It felt... complicated. In fact, it was more complicated that I could have imagined. Sadly, it had to get so much worse before it got better.

I did pay more attention to their interaction after this incident. You know, I can be attentive once I know what to pay attention to. It was heart-breaking and, frankly, idiotic from both of them. Maybe I should have tried to push them in the right direction, but I am not really someone who is good at meddling.

In the end they somehow managed to pull their heads out of their respective arses without my help. We are all very happy about this, and it is an honour to be Sherlock's best man. (And damn you, Mike, for having this idea. What am I supposed to come up with now?)


	6. Mycroft Holmes

I have been aware of my brother's affection for John Watson for a long time. Loyalty and friendship were there from the very beginning. As far as a more carnal side of their relationship was concerned, I simply considered it of no importance.

This changed after Sherlock returned from his staged death. John, then engaged to be married, had stubbornly decided to move on. Sherlock's behaviour at the time could only be described as love-sick. His actions became increasingly unreasonable, soon bordering on self-destruction.

John, on the other hand, seemed to insist on his heterosexuality. Despite his jealousy towards anyone who dared to approach Sherlock, he seemed unable to make the obvious connection.

Only in recent times, triggered by events that were traumatic for both of them, there was a shift in their relationship. After these events I had the impression, that they openly acknowledged how important they were for each other. Personally, I have no understanding why romantic entanglements are something to be desired. For a long time, I thought that my brother and I were alike in this respect. It appears that I have been mistaken.

Anyhow, I was asked for an anecdote, not an analysis. The event I want to recount is fairly recent. It is the first time I witnessed that John and Sherlock were, at least in my opinion, openly flirting. And misbehaving, as they always do.

One of the most demanding ordeals of my profession is that, from time to time, people feel the need to thank me. On this particular occasion, also John and Sherlock's presence was required. They had played a key role in capturing one of the most dangerous criminals of our time, after she had managed to escape from a high-security facility.

It was my responsibility to arrange a dinner in honour of John and Sherlock. The attendance more than illustrious. Sherlock is renowned for his inappropriate behaviour at such events. In such situations John sees his responsibility in damage control, doing his best to avert at least some of my brother's shenanigans. Since I was deeply indebted to John for the role he played in this delicate case, I wanted to make this evening as agreeable as possible for all of us.

The dinner took place at the private dining room of the Diogenes Club. Silence is imperative at this venue. Not allowing people to speak normally improves any situation. Even my brother is a more pleasant person, when he does not have the option of verbally assaulting everyone around him, though he is also highly proficient in non-verbal insults. Forcing the politicians in attendance keep their mouths shut was a more than welcome side effect.

John and Sherlock arrived on time, impeccably dressed. The dinner took place at a round table accommodating twelve. We were all seated by the staff, but as soon as the waiters stepped away, John and Sherlock simultaneously moved their chairs closer to each other. The manoeuvre was barely noticeable, but they themselves acknowledged it, turning their heads and smiling at each other.

The dinner started without noteworthy incidents, and I was tempted to compliment myself on my choice of venue. However, I should have known better than to underestimate my brother's ability to cause trouble.

The deducing started after the amuse-bouche. A respected member of the House of Lords had the audacity refuse an alcoholic beverage, which Sherlock, correctly, diagnosed to be a result of the man's fear of excessive complications with his addiction to tranquillisers. One look by Sherlock was enough to communicate this to John, whose eyes were sparkling in admiration. Sherlock did not even try to contain his smug expression.

The first course was accompanied by a deduction of a waiter's family life, based on a barely visible stain on his sleeve. With a raised eyebrow Sherlock directed John's attention to where he wanted to have it. When John gave Sherlock a questioning look, Sherlock mouthed the word "Rosie". John understood immediately. As a result, both of them were grinning like fools, the kind of smile you often see in young parents, who have the irritating ability to be proud of everything in connection with their offspring, even the excretions the child produces in abundance.

After a slightly overweight member of the cabinet did not finish the main course, it was John, who pointed this out to Sherlock with nothing but a sideways glance. John's amused expression got Sherlock to reply with a suppressed giggle. I was well-aware that this man had an affair with his personal assistant. Apparently she had cooked him an early dinner, after a rendez-vous in the afternoon.

By the time wine and cheese were served, two more affairs had been uncovered, one among three persons at the table. Some of the guests had begun to take notice of the goings-on and looked slightly exasperated.

When the port arrived, John and Sherlock had dropped most of the etiquette and were communicating in barely concealed snorts and giggles. Fortunately, smoking is out of fashion, even in these circles. If there had been cigars, John and Sherlock may have cost me my membership.

They left together, laughing and bumping against each other as soon as they were out on the street. John and my brother were not living together at that time, but I was under the impression that they had the same destination. It seems that I was slightly ahead with my assumptions. However, it was only a matter of weeks, until John and Rosamund became permanent residents at Baker Street.


	7. Sherlock and John

Sherlock put a new slide into the microscope. His collection was coming along nicely. He had not anticipated that the arrival of an infant in his life would actually benefit his research. The regular walks in Regent's park with Rosie and John had given him the idea. Five more months, and his chronology of soil samples would be complete. The seasonal changes in pollen, fungi and microbes were fascinating.

John was in the shower. There had been a small incident that involved Rosie testing the effects of a massive object (in this case herself) hitting a muddy puddle with considerable force (said force created by jumping). John, who had not been as keen on the outcome of the experiment, had tried to stop her. It only served him right that he ended up covered in dirt up to his knees. Sherlock strongly disagreed with John's attempts to interfere with his daughter's scientific endeavours.

Rosie, having succeeded in changing the colour of her clothing into a camouflage pattern, had already completed her bath and was fast asleep in John's old bedroom.

Sherlock had not been affected by the incident. He had been busy spotting criminals in the park. (Today's catch: under-worked border collie, suffering from a lack of sheep to herd, with a habit of stealing the son's plush toys and burying them in the garden.) He had only noticed when confronted with a pair of mud-covered Watsons, the elder being quite keen on returning to Baker Street, while he was recounting the events, trying hard to avoid all too graphic expletives.

All in all, Sherlock found the current situation agreeable but not perfect. Certainly, the arrangement was a massive improvement compared to the events of the past two years. Sherlock had John back, sort of, and having the girl around was surprisingly OK. Technically, John and Rosie were not living at Baker Street. However, after John had decided to cut down his hours at the surgery in favour of case work with Sherlock, it had turned out that Rosie needed a place to nap and, as this afternoon's events showed, a place to store spare clothes and all kinds of other supplies.

As a consequence, John's bedroom had been turned into a makeshift nursery. On days, when John did not have any other obligations, they usually arrived for brunch (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson) and stayed until late afternoon.

Recently, Sherlock had observed that these late afternoons tended to extend into early evenings, until Rosie demanded her dinner. After feeding her, John usually was reluctant to transport his sleepy daughter back to his flat, which meant that he would spend the night on Sherlock's sofa. 

This sleeping arrangement was far from optimal, in particular for John's shoulder. Sherlock had a very clear idea on how to resolve the issue, but he was not sure if John was open to such a radical measure.

Over the past few months their relationship had grown in many respects. One aspect was Sherlock's involvement in Rosie's upbringing. Also, John seemed more open in general. He confided in Sherlock on personal issues more often. Sherlock did not hesitate to do the same. He was grateful, that he did not have to shoulder his complicated family situation all on his own.

They were also closer physically. Touching each other seemed natural. But did that signify more than companionship? Did it warrant a permanent invitation into Sherlock's bedroom? Sherlock knew better, than to give in to wishful thinking. He kept reminding himself to stick to the facts, and the facts were inconclusive at best.

Sherlock removed the slide from the microscope and prepared the last sample (Japanese Garden island).

"Anything useful?" John stood next to the fridge, dressed in his old bathrobe, hair still wet.

"I can confirm that winter is coming."

"Oh. I would not have guessed. You know, the chill, the falling leaves, the fog, the rain. _The puddles._ " 

Sherlock loved John's fond sarcasm. He also loved that this bathrobe was ridiculously short. And he loved the legs underneath. The fact, that quite a lot of chest was at display, was not bad either.

There was no way Sherlock could continue to give his soil sample the attention it deserved. Not with this in front of him. He got up and moved towards the kettle. Tea was always an option.

"Sorry, am I distracting you?"

Yes. "No."

"Are you sure?" John was grinning. Why was he grinning?

"Yes. Why?"

"Didn't you want to make tea?"

Of course he did. "Of course I did."

"So?"

Oh. To make tea, one typically took the kettle, walked over to the sink, filled it with water, put it back in its place and turned it on. Somehow Sherlock had failed to do any of this. Instead, he was leaning against the counter, legs crossed, his chest at display. This was unfortunate.

"You are not making tea." John's ability to state the obvious had the habit of making an appearance in the most inconvenient situations.

Sherlock did not know what to say. John did.

"Sherlock, I might get this wrong. But are you trying to flirt with me?"

"What?" Sherlock could not believe what he had just heard. 

John took a step towards the kitchen table. So did the bathrobe and the chest and the legs.

"Well, instead of making tea, you are leaning up against the kitchen counter, posing like a bloody supermodel, with your bespoke trousers and your tight shirts and your neck, and..."

John paused to take a breath. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but still did not know what to say.

"And before you say no." John lifted his index finger in an advance attempt to get Sherlock to shut up. "This is not the first time I have noticed this. And, well, I get the impression that you have been doing this more often lately."

Sherlock felt cornered. He was about to deny everything. However, John did not sound as if he was accusing Sherlock of anything. He merely seemed to state a fact. Sherlock had to admit to himself that John was not wrong. Perhaps it was time for a counter attack.

"And what about you?"

"What about me?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I am working here, and you prance through the kitchen, with that tiny bathrobe of yours, that barely leaves anything to the imagination."

John's expression changed to incredulous. He looked at himself, gesturing at his body. 

"You mean... _this_?!" Wrinkles appeared on his forehead. "Really, Sherlock?"

Sherlock felt a sudden need to look anywhere but at John. His cheeks felt hot. Was he blushing? The silence was awkward. He was supposed to say something.

"Sherlock, we need to address this." John's voice was soft.

"No, we don't."

"Yes, we do." John looked at him, determined, and sighed. "Probably should have years ago."

It sounded like a challenge, something Sherlock normally would accept with enthusiasm. Now, his courage had disappeared without a trace.

For better or worse, John seemed to have enough courage for both of them.

"Alright. Then I am going to address it." Sherlock swallowed. Captain John Watson was making an appearance. Sherlock swallowed again.

John planted himself in front of Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I believe that you are flirting with me. I believe that you have been doing so for quite some time. I may have been stupid for not noticing sooner. But Sherlock, you know what?"

A dramatic pause. Sherlock had taught him well. 

"What you failed to notice is," John continued, "that I have been flirting with you too. I thought I was being blatantly obvious."

"Oh." Sherlock said. An then " _Oh_ ," as his brain supplied him with memories of numerous occasions where John had, in fact, flirted with him. 

John smiled. "Good?"

Sherlock finally got a hold of himself. "Monumental."

John giggled. Sherlock loved John's giggles.

"Alright then." John's smile was radiant. "I suggest, we move beyond flirting right now."

Sherlock's courage almost threatened to disappear again. Monumental indeed. "Alright," he managed faintly.

"OK, let's do this." John pulled Sherlock down and kissed straight him on the mouth.

It happened so quickly that Sherlock's brain needed a moment to catch up. Then a dam broke.

Sherlock grabbed John by the lapels of his bathrobe and pulled him close. John grabbed Sherlock's waist and held on.

Sherlock tried to navigate his way through the wave of incoming sensations: the texture of John's lips, as opposed to the texture of John's tongue, the edges of John's teeth (was his own tongue inside John's mouth?), John's warm, compact body against his own, a noticeable bulge underneath John's bathrobe (no pants!), John's hips thrusting upwards (correction: being pulled upwards by Sherlock's hands groping John's arse). 

Sherlock's mind was racing towards overdrive. He could not keep up with the events, and he had no idea what his body was doing. All he knew is that it was doing _something_ , and that this something felt amazing. 

A loud "Ahh" coming from John got Sherlock's attention. Somehow, they had made it to the corridor, where Sherlock was not-so-gently pushing John against a wall. As far as he could tell, Sherlock was in the process of ravishing John Watson. What an unexpected turn of events. How had this escalated so quickly? 

"Why did you stop?" John sounded out of breath, and annoyed.

"Sherlock?" Had Sherlock done something wrong?

"Sherlock!" John used both hands to make Sherlock look at him. Sherlock had the impression that he was some disembodied creature watching this whole unreal situation from above.

"Sherlock." John's voice was calm and commanding now. "Unless you have serious doubts about this whole thing, could you please stop analysing and get the hell on with what you've been doing? Because it's bloody hot, you know."

If only Sherlock had any idea what he had been doing. He looked down the length of John's body, bathrobe half open, chest flushed underneath, and lower... 

Sherlock suddenly knew exactly what he wanted. He untied the robe and spread it open. John shrugged it off his shoulders and was now completely naked. Sherlock had deduced John's penis years ago, but a mental image was nothing compared to seeing it in its full glory. John was erect, foreskin halfway retracted, the head purple and moist. Sherlock felt his own erection fill up at the sight. He needed more, urgently.

Sherlock bent down to kiss John again. He put all of his desire into the kiss, assaulting John's mouth with his tongue. John matched him step by step, urging him on by pulling him closer. The kiss was messy, bordering obscene, and not enough.

John fumbled with the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. As soon as he had pried the first two open, Sherlock pulled the shirt over his head and threw it on the floor.

"Jesus." John breathed, and planted his mouth on Sherlock's right nipple. Sherlock saw stars. The sensation went straight to his groin. He had to bite on his lip to stifle a loud groan.

The height difference proved to be a nuisance. Sherlock wanted to press his whole body against John, but it either worked for the top half or the bottom half, not for both.

He made a half-heartened attempt to pull John towards his bedroom. It seemed that neither of them could muster enough control to walk the remaining few steps. Sherlock shot a helpless glance at John, who gave him the dirtiest look he had ever seen (not that Sherlock had a lot of experience in this area), and started to slide down against the wall.

Sherlock got the hint and grabbed John by his legs lifting him off the ground. He turned them by ninety degrees and lowered John onto the floor. Sherlock ended up kneeling between John's legs. John was on his back, propped up on his elbows.

Sherlock needed a moment to take in the sight. John's face was flushed with arousal, his nipples were peaked, his penis was standing up, bumping against his belly, where it left a wet spot.

Sherlock could not believe his luck. He scooted backwards and bent down. Wasting no time, he took John in his mouth. 

John's reaction was vocal. "Fuck, Sherlock," he groaned.

Sherlock was, once again, overcome by sensations: the smoothness of the tip, the salty taste, the silky texture of the shaft against his lips, the thick vein straining underneath, the glorious musky smell that screamed sex in capital letters, the minute thrusts of John's hips. Sherlock wanted to keep doing this forever.

John was fighting for control. Looking up, Sherlock saw that John's eyes were closed in concentration. He was panting, making an effort not to be too loud. John's whole body was tense as he tried to keep himself from pushing into Sherlock's mouth. 

"Sherlock, stop now, or I'll come down your throat."

Stopping was the last thing on Sherlock's mind. All he wanted was for John to give up his last bit of control. He moaned around John's cock at this prospect.

"Oh god, Sherlock!"

John's penis twitched and grew even harder. Then Sherlock's mouth was flooded by a rush of fluid, accompanied by John crying out. Sherlock did his best to swallow, while taking in as many details as possible.

John sank down onto the floor, panting. He seemed barely conscious. Sherlock let him go, his own neglected arousal suddenly becoming painfully obvious. He was rock-hard in his pants, his penis straining against its confines an a rather unpleasant way.

Sherlock only saw one option. In other circumstances he would have been appalled by his own lack of control. Now all he could do was to act on his base instincts. He opened his trousers, shoved them down around his knees, and reached into his pants to pull out his cock.

He leaned forward and braced himself on his left arm, hovering above John's limp body, and stroked himself with his right hand. It would only be a matter of moments. Sherlock felt a tingling sensation throughout his body. He was so close. A few rough pulls was all it would take.

"Let me!" Sherlock barely registered what was happening. John had lifted his head and was reaching for Sherlock's cock.

"Sherlock, please. Please, let me." Sherlock let go of himself. 

As soon as John's hand had closed around him, Sherlock started to come. Reality disappeared around him. 

When Sherlock was capable of coherent thought again, he found himself collapsed on top of John in a pool of his own come. John was playing with his curls.

Sherlock lifted his head in search of John's face. Now that the rush was over, he felt a bit self-conscious. To Sherlock's relief, John's expression did not leave any room for worries.

"Sherlock, that was incredible!" Sherlock blushed.

"Seriously, that..." John laughed, shaking his head. "God, we were not exactly quiet in the end. I should go check on Rosie."

Sherlock blushed some more and listened for any noise coming from the baby monitor at the kitchen table. All quiet.

"Sleeps like a baby," Sherlock said, relieved.

"One of her most appreciated qualities." John's post-coital giggles were even more enticing than his usual ones. 

Sherlock was about to rest his head on John's shoulder, when they both noticed footsteps on the stairs.

"Shit. Mrs. Hudson!" John lifted his head to inspect the mess they were in.

Sherlock was suddenly very aware of the fact that they were not in a presentable state, not to mention that Mrs. Hudson had probably heard everything. Weren't old people supposed to be deaf?

"Shit, indeed." Sherlock tried to hide his face in John's shoulder, as if this could offer any protection. 

The knock at the kitchen door left no doubt: if Mrs. Hudson knocked, she knew everything.

"Boys?" Sherlock looked at John, helpless. John's eyebrows performed the equivalent of a clueless shrug.

"Boys? Are you in? I wonder if you would mind if Rosie and I had a little girls' night tonight. I could take her to the pasta place she likes so much, and maybe she could sleep in my flat tonight?"

John closed his eyes and sighed in relief. "Bless her!" he whispered. Sherlock rolled on his back to lie next to John. They did not deserve her.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," John shouted. "If you don't mind, that would be appreciated."

"Of course I don't mind, dear." Mrs. Hudson's voice was overly cheerful. "Why don't you come downstairs for breakfast tomorrow morning, whenever you are ready to pick up Rosie?" 

"That would be great. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock was grateful that John did all the talking.

"No problem at all. Have a nice evening."

Mrs. Hudson stepped away from the kitchen door and moved upstairs to check on Rosie. Once she was out of hearing range, John turned on his side to give Sherlock a lingering kiss.

"We did not make it to the bedroom."

Sherlock chuckled. "No we didn't."

It was getting a little uncomfortable on the floor.

"Want to try again?" John's suggestive voice sent a spark of arousal through Sherlock's body. Definitely flirting.

"To get to my bedroom? Yes, we could try."

"Great." John got up and held out a hand to help Sherlock to his feet. 

Sherlock looked at their state of disarray and had an idea.

"What is your opinion about a detour to the shower?"

Sherlock was delighted to see that John's penis twitched at this suggestion. The rest of John seemed to agree, too. Sherlock let himself be pulled towards the bathroom. Perhaps the bedroom could wait a bit longer.

On the next morning, after a veritable feast in Sherlock's bedroom and a delicious breakfast at Mrs. Hudson's, John, while holding Sherlock's hand, called a real estate agent in order to get rid of his flat.


End file.
